


Bookrunner

by Catherine_Medici



Series: Stranger than Fiction [1]
Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: AU, Ensemble Cast, F/M, Fantasy, Fiction, Humor, Jasper Fforde, Lizzington - Freeform, No fictional character is safe, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-05-18 13:08:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5929573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catherine_Medici/pseuds/Catherine_Medici
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a universe where the real world and Fictionworld™ exist side by side, how will the surrender of notorious criminal and bookrunner Raymond Reddington affect the life of Quantico graduate Elizabeth Keen? A Lizzington fanfiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> With sincere thanks to the estimable Jasper Fforde for the use of his Fictionworld, and pretty much every other author we can think of for the use of their wonderful characters. We'll put them back where we found them, good as new. We promise. Mostly.

_From memory…_

Hot chocolate was a luxury that she only indulged in while she was here. Where she was from, there wasn't much of an opportunity to satisfy her sweet tooth. She brought the china cup to her lips, her hands shaking a little as she glanced nervously around the warm coffee shop.

He was late. Her mind immediately started jumping to terrible scenarios — he was hurt, lost, or worst of all, _they_ had found out. Just as the panic started to rise, the bell over the door gave its cheerful jingle, and there he was, scanning the room until his bright blue eyes lit on her. _He is so handsome_ , she thought, admiring his dark brown curls and lean, muscular build as he strode across the room to sit across from her.

“I was beginning to worry,” she said in a low voice, leaning across the table, glancing quickly from side to side.

“You worry too much,” he said lightly. “I was careful, no one followed me.”

She pushed the double espresso that she had waiting by her elbow over to him. She knew what he liked by now. Her stomach twisted. She wasn't sure how he would take her news.

“I’ve been missing you,” he said warmly, taking her hands in his. “How long will you be here this time?”

“I’ve already dropped off this month’s package,” she replied, biting her lip. “But Scott, this time… I can’t go back, I _can’t_. I’m… I’m pregnant.”

His eyes widened and his hands dropped from hers as he slumped in his chair. For a few agonizingly long moments, they just stared at each other. He swallowed painfully.

“I-Is that even possible?” he asked in a trembling voice.

_Was he calling her a liar?_ “I’m not a doctor or a scientist,” she snapped back, quick temper leaping to the fore. “But I _am_ pregnant, so it must be.”

His hands found hers again, squeezing reassuringly. “It’s okay, Katya, we can deal with this. You're right, you can't go back...there.”

Tears welled in the corners of her eyes; she blinked them away furiously. She was tougher than this — she couldn't understand the strange, illogical urges she was having. One minute she wanted to hide and cry, the next she wanted to wring his neck. But she loved him, and she loved the baby they were going to have together. They just had to figure out a way to stay safe.

It wasn't going to be easy.

“We’ve talked about compiling a list of them before. Maybe it's time to do that now. With the intel we both have, we could end up with a pretty comprehensive file. It would be enough to keep them at bay. They'd be scared enough to leave us alone, wouldn't they?” She squeezed his hand hopefully; surely her idea had some merit? It was all they had.

“You’re right,” he said. “If we let them have even a taste of the things we know… It should work, Katya, it really should. And,” he continued, his eyes alight, “I know a place for you, for us. I’ll keep you safe, I promise, you and our baby.”

When they left the coffee shop, arms around each other, love and hope were bright on their faces. There was no way for them to know that some books can never be completely closed.


	2. The Senator

The Senator strode through the parking garage, a cheerful hum on his lips, his steps light. It had been a good day. As he approached his car, he bent his head to rummage for his keys in the outer pocket of his briefcase.

Lost in his own thoughts, his heart leaped into his throat and he had to stifle a shriek when he felt the gentle tap on his shoulder.

“Excuse me, Senator?” he heard his own voice say politely.

Startled and alarmed, he wheeled around, only to come face-to-face with… himself.

He gaped like a surprised goldfish, started to stammer a question, when something rammed into the back of his head and everything went black.

Three men stared down at the limp body.

“That went well,” said the other Senator.

“Don’t get -ing cocky,” said one of the others, sniffing hugely. “With the right -ing people pulling the strings, anyone can look like anyone. It’s the -ing _act_ you’ve got to have perfect now.”

 

* * *

 

The Senator came to slowly and woozily, unsure how long he’d been unconscious. His body ached, particularly his shoulders and feet; he thought he must have been dragged at some point. His head felt like a bomb had gone off inside it, and he hoped he wouldn’t be sick.

With some effort, he blinked his eyes open. He was confronted with the wobbly picture of two men — one large and heavyset, with something odd about his eyes; the other small and thin, with a head just slightly too large for his body.

“Wh-What’s happening?” he asked weakly. “Wh-Where am I?”

“Don’t go worrying yourself about those kind of details,” the thin one answered, in a voice that was clearly meant to be soothing, but fell far short of the mark. “You’re just going to stay here with us for a few days.”

The Senator looked around the room, his vision starting to sharpen along with his thoughts. It was a small room, one that reminded him of a log cabin, but although there was no window, the sounds of a city were clearly audible.

He was tied to a hard wooden chair, the armrests sticky under his hands, and the table beside him was crusted with food and dirt. There was a puddle of… something under his feet that caused his movements to squelch unpleasantly, and the _smell_ …

“What,” he demanded, suddenly more himself, “Is that godawful _stench_?”

“Oh, don’t like your -ing _accommodations_?” the large one sneered, pulling a small knife out of his pocket and tossing it absently in the air. “Excuse us, I’m sure. We can’t all be -ing Raymond Reddington, you know."

“You’ll get used to it,” the small one said cheerily. “It’s only the river. And if I were you,” he went on, with an absolutely terrifying smile, “I’d be trying harder to make friends."

 

* * *

 

Donald Ressler marched through the blacksite, arms swinging, with a ferocious glare plastered to his face. His cheap, faux-leather shoes squeaked on the unpolished cement of the war room floor. He caught sight of the woman he'd come looking for.

“You,” he pointed at her with his index finger. “Come with me.”

The brunette agent broke off her conversation with Aram to trade stares with him. “I've been briefed by Assistant Director Cooper already,” she said evenly. “I was just introducing myself to Agent Mojtabai.”

“Yeah, good for you. Now you get to meet the man himself. It's what you agreed to, right?”

Her eyes widened slightly. He sighed inwardly at that. She was a rookie straight out of Quantico. A profiler, not even an English Lit major. What was so special about _her_?

He kept his back ramrod straight as she followed one step behind through the dimly lit corridors of the blacksite. Her booted heels made a steady click, clack as they marched.

“So listen, Raymond Reddington’s no picnic, okay? You need to go in prepared. He’s in a cell specially designed by DARPA. He has no access to books, no writing implements, and there is _nothing_ in that room that he can use to read himself anywhere else.” He stopped at a pneumatically sealed door to press his thumb up against a pad. The door ground open noisily and they continued down another corridor.

She was still a step behind him so he didn't see the expression on her face when she asked “So why you then? I mean, I can tell why you're wondering about me. I can't read myself into books. Assistant Director Cooper had me tested upstairs. But they said you couldn't either. So how did you get the lead on this case?”

He turned to give her a hard stare. “I've been working this case for four years. I may not be able to read myself into fiction but we have a consultant who can. Agent Mojtabai is also working on a device that will allow non-Bookrunners to be able to enter fiction. Needless to say, you will _not_ be telling Reddington that.”

They were almost there but she'd stopped in the middle of the hallway, a look of trepidation on her face that did little to soften and much to irritate him. What was this circus anyway? Why had Raymond Reddington, the criminal mastermind, the most talented Bookrunner in a hundred years, just walked into FBI headquarters and insisted on speaking only with Elizabeth Keen?

It didn't make sense. Donald mistrusted the criminal’s offer of a so-called ‘blacklist’ of fictional characters who were supposedly causing havoc in the real world. He claimed that they were so good at what they did that the FBI’s Fiction Apprehension task force wasn't even aware of them.

Unlikely. His task force did good work. But Reddington was offering up information that had to be investigated. And damn him, speaking with Elizabeth Keen had been one of his non-negotiable demands.

“Got a problem?” he asked Keen roughly. If she was gonna chicken out, it may as well be now, then he could go tell Cooper the deal was off.

“What's he like?” She chewed her lip, still unmoving in the middle of the corridor.

“He's spent almost twenty-five years brokering deals with fictional characters both in our world and in Fictionworld™. He's also responsible for some of the biggest jewel and art heists in history. He smuggles criminals to Fictionworld™, which makes his services unique _and_ makes him one of the most highly sought after criminals anywhere in the world. He can broker any deal, anywhere. He makes things happen. It's why they call him the Concierge of Crime. Don't get distracted — he is a _very_ skilled negotiator and if you forget that you _will_ come off second best, got it?”

She visibly swallowed at his harsh rejoinder, but she started walking again, catching up to him as he turned on his heel and veered to the left down a set of stairs. They reached another door and he used his thumb print once more to enter a busy control room which overlooked a huge, empty space. In the middle of that space, illuminated only by harsh spotlights, was the box they'd briefly spoken about.

 

* * *

 

She stood at the top of the metal staircase, looking down at the imposing glass cage. The strident beeping and grinding of the machinery as the box drew away from its inhabitant rang in her ears. _So_ , she thought, _that’s Raymond Reddington. He doesn’t_ look _particularly dangerous_.

She made her way down the stairs and walked across the room to the single, straight-backed chair in the middle of the room. She sat, primly, legs crossed and hands clasped in her lap. He smiled at her, and his whole face lit up.

“Agent Keen, what a pleasure.” His voice was deep, rich, seductive.

“Well,” she replied. “I’m here. Maybe you’d like to tell me why? Why me? I’m nobody special.”

His face, voice, his whole demeanour warmed. “Oh, I think you’re _very_ special.” After a brief moment, in which he seemed to be searching her face for something, she couldn’t imagine what, he straightened, flexing his hands inside their bonds.

“Senator Daniel Ryker has been abducted — only a short time before…”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped, a little angry. All this ridiculous fuss, and his first tip was an obvious dud? “I think we’d know if a senator was missing.”

“It’s rude to interrupt,” he replied coolly. “I didn’t say he was missing. I said he’d been abducted.”

“That’s just semantics.”

“Not really. Senator Ryker has been abducted, and replaced. You may be aware of the Senate’s vote the day after tomorrow? On the new copyright legislation? This particular senator happens to be the swing vote. It is in the interests of a certain media magnate — perhaps you’ve also heard of Brian Darchrons? — that that vote go a particular way. _Not_ the way, needless to say, that Senator Ryker was planning on voting.”

“So, you’re telling me… what?” she demanded, voice high and tight with irritation. “That a U.S. senator has been abducted and replaced with an imposter? An actor? And no one’s _noticed_?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” he replied. “And if you don’t act fast, it will be too late to change anything, and Senator Ryker will be dead.”

 

* * *

 

“Just follow my lead, okay?” Agent Ressler instructed overbearingly as they entered the senator’s office.

This guy was getting a bit much. What kind of chip on his shoulder was he dealing with here? It seemed like every opportunity he had, he had to demonstrate some kind of one-upmanship over her. It wasn't like she'd asked for any of this. It was meant to be her first day on the job as a profiler with the FBI — primarily a desk job, but a challenging one. It wasn't her fault that she'd been thrown into a field position as soon as she’d arrived.

“Excuse me, we’re Special Agents Ressler and Keen. We'd like a moment of Senator Ryker’s time, please,” said Ressler authoritatively to the receptionist at the small front desk.

“Oh no, I'm afraid that's not possible, he's in a meeting.” The smooth-haired blonde didn't hesitate to refuse them. She was polite, but Ressler _had_ flashed his badge. Wasn't she wondering what this was about?

“Please,” Liz broke in pleasantly. “We’re investigating a credible threat to the Senator’s security. We’ll only take a moment of his time, I promise,” she said, flashing a smile at the woman.

“Oh, I see.” And the way her face fell suggested that she _did_ see. It was a no-win situation for her. A credible threat had to be investigated, but the senator would probably be unhappy about her letting them through.

“Look, it's official FBI business. You can tell him that,” she offered sympathetically.

“I thought I told you to follow my lead,” he hissed, as they followed a few paces behind the receptionist.

“Oh, and you were doing such a good job of putting her at her ease with that face,” she muttered back.

He glared at her, but didn't get a chance to reply as the receptionist ducked into an office and out again, beckoning the Senator into the hall. He clearly _hadn't_ been in a meeting.

Well, he looked exactly like his picture on the government webpage. Spitting image.

“What's this about?” he asked gruffly.

“Senator, we've received some, er, some intelligence to suggest that…” Ressler trailed off.

They both realised at the same moment that they couldn't very well ask the man if he'd been kidnapped and replaced with a doppelgänger, could they?

“Senator,” she said smoothly, “There's been a threat to your safety and we believe it has something to do with the vote that's occurring this week on the copyright legislation. Can you please confirm if you've received any threats? Any strange correspondence?”

The senator’s bushy eyebrows hit the roof. “Not at all. Nothing strange. What exactly does your intelligence say?”

Ressler and Liz exchanged looks. “It's fine,” he said, “As long as you haven't heard anything to cause you concern. May we take a look around your office? Just to ensure everything is in order, of course.”

The senator nodded, gesturing them inside the cramped room. She wasn't sure what Ressler was even looking for but she browsed his bookshelf, running her fingers along the spines of the volumes at her eye level as Ressler examined the items on his desk, doing a quick sweep of the family photos sitting alongside his stapler and hole punch.

“Look, everything seems to be fine, so we’ll just go. Here,” Ressler added, offering his card. “If you do receive any threats or anything causes you concern, just call and we’ll be right back out.”

It was only a short walk to the car, but Liz had to endure the furious mutters of her partner the whole way. He slammed the car door, giving her a nasty look. “You can go back and ask him what the hell he was on about then. I'm done with him. We should just process him and chuck him in a cell.”

 

* * *

 

As she strode back into the Post Office, her body practically vibrated with rage. The best part of her first day with the FBI was already over, and it had all been wasted on this… this ridiculous charade!

Face to face with Reddington again, she wanted to smack the charming smile right off his face.

“I hope you’re happy,” she seethed. “Sending us on that wild goose chase. You’re lucky you’re not in the deepest pit Ressler could find. You had better be prepared to give me some real intel.”

“I can’t be held responsible for Agent Ressler’s inability to see the truth when it’s jumping up and down in front of his face. Did you expect it to be obvious? The people behind this are experts in this kind of thing.”

“There is no way anyone could be that similar, not just looks, but the voice, his mannerisms — no one in his office noticed anything out of place, his behaviours haven’t changed, there’s nothing…”

“Lizzie, it’s a moot point. The important thing is to find the _real_ Senator before…”

“I've already found him — he’s in his office where he belongs! If you think you can weasel your way into an immunity deal with nothing but these jumped up stories…”

They were talking over each other now, voices getting increasingly louder and more emotional, both seeming to have forgotten where they were. Reddington leant forward in his seat, arms straining for release; Liz paced around him like an angry cat, stalking and spitting.

It took Aram, running down the metal steps and skidding to a halt a few paces from the raging pair, several moments to get their attention — it wasn’t in his character to shout or put himself forward, but this was too important to wait.

“Agent Keen, Mr. Reddington, _please listen!”_ His voice, finally loud enough to cut through the room, had Liz spinning on her heel to stare at him. He wilted a little under their combined fierce regard, but went on determinedly. “You need to come back upstairs, Agent Keen. There’s something you absolutely have to see…”


	3. The New Firm

Liz followed Agent Mojtabai back up the metal staircase. Sparing a look over her shoulder at Reddington, she saw that he had closed his eyes and wore a small frown as he calmed himself. The sight caused her a momentary pang — but why did he care so much what she thought, anyway?

She shook it off as she walked into the office; she needed to focus. Agent Mojtabai had already seated himself, his hands moving rapidly over the keyboard of a laptop, Ressler and Cooper watching over his shoulder.

“So,” he said over the clacking of keys, “On the assumption that Mr. Reddington was telling the truth, I pulled the last two days of security footage from the parking garage at the congressional buildings. Lots and lots of nothing much, but then, yesterday afternoon…”

Grainy black and white images sprang up on the bank of monitors above their heads. They all watched in astonishment as the scene of Senator Ryker’s abduction unfolded in front of them.

“It’s unreal,” Ressler breathed in disbelief. “They… They’re identical.”

“And Reddington was telling the truth,” Liz said flatly. “So now what?”

* * *

Trepidation trembled in her stomach as she descended the stairs once more. She sat back down across from Reddington and took a deep breath.

“So, let me guess.” He spoke, voice almost obscenely cheerful, before she had a chance to open her mouth. “You’ve confirmed that I was right, and the Senator has been replaced by an imposter.”

She couldn’t help the astonishment that leaked into her voice. “Those men — they took the Senator and then just disappeared! They dragged him away and… nothing. None of them could be found on any camera, anywhere. _Where_ is the real Senator?”

“I told you what I knew. This is in your hands now.”

“I need your help with this…” And suddenly everything that had happened, everything that she had been told over the last few hours overwhelmed her. “This _insanity._  Is the related to the… the Fictionworld **™**? Is that where they’re from? How they escaped?”

“How about a trade?” he replied with a grin. “You tell me; I’ll tell you. Tell me about the scar on your palm.”

“I…” She covered her scar with her left hand automatically. “There was a fire. I was four.”

“Someone tried to hurt you?”

“No, not exactly. I don’t really remember.”

“Haven’t you ever wondered, Agent Keen? About your past? About your own story?”

“Of course I have,” she snapped back. “But who can remember when they were that young? And there’s no one left alive to tell me what happened.”

“Ah,” he said softly. “Such a sad tale.” He smiled at her warmly. “Do you enjoy stories, Agent Keen? Ever… lose yourself in a good book?”

“I know what you’re getting at,” she said edgily. “But they tested me earlier when they cleared me to speak with you. I can’t… I’m not… a bookrunner.”

He laughed. “Is that what they’re calling it? How delightful. And I wouldn’t put too much stock in anything the FBI tells you, Lizzie. You should…”

He was interrupted by the firm, authoritative tones of Assistant Director Cooper over the intercom. “All right, Reddington. Let’s hear what you’ve got to offer.”

* * *

Reddington strode into the Post Office proper, smirking at their photo boards, taking it all in while he rubbed at his wrists. He looked up at the stilled security footage with interest.

“Well, well, isn’t that _fascinating_.”

“How about you stop peacocking around and give a straight answer for once, Reddington,” Ressler growled.

“What do you think, Agent Keen?” Reddington asked, with a smile on his face and a glint in his eye.

“I… I don’t even know where to start,” she replied helplessly.

“Oh, but you do,” he said. “You just have to look at it a little differently. Look at it like a criminal.”

Liz rolled her stiff shoulders a little, and looked up at the screens.

“They… they dragged him off,” she started, slowly and thoughtfully. “So they’re keeping him alive, at least for now. They had to take him somewhere. Are they…”

“Oh, those thugs are most certainly fictional,” Reddington confirmed, with a brief moue of distaste.

“Most criminals are more confident, more comfortable on their own turf,” Liz continued, faster now, starting to pace around. “So they’d probably take him home — back to their own book.”

“Splendid deduction!” Reddington exclaimed, beaming. “Figure out which book those two are from, and you’ve found the senator.”

“Well, that’s _supremely_ helpful,” Ressler interjected sourly. “Narrows our search down to what — a few million different places?”

“Oh, now, Donald, don’t sulk,” Reddington taunted. “I might know someone who can help you. An expert in identifying stories — the Archivist.”

“And where can we find this… Archivist?” demanded Cooper.

“If I tell you, you have to give me something in return. No more restraints, no cages. If I am to be of any use to you, I need to be free to move about as normal.”

“And if everything you’ve told us is just another mess of lies?”

“Don’t discount lies,” he replied smoothly (evading the question neatly). “Lies have power of their own. Remember, Agent Keen, a lie can get round the world before the truth has got its boots on.”

“I… I have nothing to say to that,” she replied, completely at the end of her tether. “I have to go home. Shower. See my husband.”

“That’s fine,” Cooper affirmed. “But don’t go far.”

“Be careful, Agent Keen…”

Reddington’s rich tones followed her as she walked to the elevator; they nagged at her as she got into her car.

 _I just need to get home_ , she thought, a little desperately. _Just a little bit of normal to balance out this completely mad day…_

* * *

Liz reached the front door of her home and leaned against it for just a moment, her cheek resting against the grooves in the woodwork. She was exhausted, emotionally spent, and physically sick at the enormity of the task ahead.

How was she supposed to keep all of this from Tom? It felt like she was in a twilight zone. To think there was a whole world, a parallel universe where every fictional character ever written existed, published or unpublished. It beggared belief. She thought wearily of the rumours about Area 51. Were they true too? Who knew? If the FBI and the U.S. Government could keep a secret like this so successfully, anything could be true. And she was at the centre of it somehow.

Pushing off of the door, she scrabbled around her handbag for her key. She had just turned the lock and cracked open the door when a massive body hurtled into her from behind, pushing her roughly into the small hallway of her home.

“What the hell! Watch where you're going!” She yelled angrily, turning to see who it was that had so clumsily shoved her.

“Babe! In the kitchen” Tom’s voice floated from further inside the house. She barely noticed his words though, her gaze focused on the two strange men grinning smarmily at her, the larger one effectively blocking the doorway.

“Who-”

“Now, now, dear, let's not ask questions that you don’t want answers to,” interrupted the little man standing slightly in front of the monster.

“What-”

“Very well then, let's at least get the introductions out of the way. I,” and he bowed with a flourish, “Am Mr Pin and this,” he said indicating to the hulk, “Is Mr Tulip.”

“Get out of-”

And then, the man who had just been introduced to her as Mr Tulip stretched a fist back and whacked her in the nose.

She crumpled to the floor, her head spinning and ears ringing unmercifully. Her vision was blurred, but she still managed to scramble away from those awful men by instinct. They advanced on her slowly. It was only pure adrenaline that gave her the strength to heave herself up and make a run for it, further into the house. It was no good trying to get out; the Tulip-man was still blocking the front door. And anyway, she couldn't leave Tom here alone, he had no defensive training.

“Tom!” She yelled, groaning at the clanging inside her head. “Call the FBI! Get out oof-”

She'd been slugged in the gut. She almost made it to the kitchen when Tom appeared in the doorway holding a bottle of champagne, a confused expression on his face.

“Liz — what…”

With surprising speed, Mr Tulip crossed the room, slamming himself into Tom. Tom went down like a felled tree, the champagne cast aside, fizzy contents spilling out over their rug with a soft hiss.

“Tom,” she cried out anxiously. He wasn't moving. She darted toward him but was caught up in the unrelenting grasp of Mr Tulip. He dangled her in the air, holding her with both hands behind her back, torso forced forward, facing Mr Pin.

“Now,” said Mr Pin. “Not one for wasting time with unnecessary pleasantries, am I, Mr Tulip?”

“No, you -ing ain't,” responded her captor agreeably.

“So, missy, you're going to tell me what you know about Senator Ryker and how you know it. I ain't got all day and by the looks of things, neither has lover boy over there.”

“Got an -ing egg on his head the size of a -ing baby mongoose,” chimed in Mr Tulip.

“I don't know, I don't know anything,” she panted, struggling to get loose. He was as immovable as a three-hundred-year-old tree. Her kicking and twisting made not the slightest bit of difference.

“Well, I'd hate to have to take you with us,” Mr Pin mused. “You won't like it. We ain't got no ladies room, put it that way,” he sneered.

Panic had well and truly set in; she _knew_ it would do no good to struggle, but her body wasn't getting the message. It was currently flailing uselessly in an effort to get free, to be doing something productive in this awful situation. Terror was pouring in and filling her mind. She almost wanted to tell them what they wanted to know if they would just leave her and Tom alone but something stayed her tongue. Call it a hunch, but she didn't think she'd live long if she immediately gave them what they wanted.

So, she prevaricated.

“Listen, I just did a routine check today after a threat to a senator was called into the FBI. They didn't tell me anything!”

The three of them were so engrossed in her interrogation that they didn't notice that where Tom had been lying unconscious on the floor, there was now just a half-empty champagne bottle on the rug. They didn't notice the slide of a knife from the kitchen knife block or Tom’s knees squeaking as he crawled across the polished timber floor.

They did notice when Tom took a swipe at Mr Tulip, attempting to hamstring him with a knife.

It all happened so quickly. One moment she was in the air, the next, she was a heap on the ground. She felt unable to move, unable to call out, and she saw it all in slow motion as Mr Pin moved like lightning, wrenching the knife out of Tom’s hand while Mr Tulip howled in pain in the background. He didn't hesitate, sinking the knife into Tom’s thigh and then again into his abdomen. It was then that Tom’s howls joined Mr Tulip’s.

“Tom, no, Tom,” she shrieked breathlessly. Her face felt numb. _Tom._

She watched, helpless, as Mr Tulip advanced toward her, limping slightly, his face a mask of fury. “I didn't -ing come here to be stabbed by -ing nancy boys.”

His large fist was the last thing she saw.

* * *

When she was seventeen, she'd snuck out to a frat party a few towns over. It had been so exciting — the music pumping, kids going wild in the back yard. There was a drunken game of tug of war on the front lawn and inside, some kids were blowing soap bubbles all over the place. It was the kind of party that made you feel like you had no limits, and she recalled trying that theory out, drinking a weirdly colored cocktail from a yard glass and downing several cheap beers after that.

One moment she was dancing on a tabletop, the next moment she woke to the harsh, bright lights of a hospital, with her dad and a nurse peering down at her concernedly.

She'd had the mother of all headaches — it had felt like a nail had been driven into her skull, through the centre and out the other side.

That was nothing compared to the headache she was sporting now.

Her eyes fluttered open for just a moment but she regretted that immediately, closing them again, grateful for the dark.

“Hello,” came a hoarse, male voice from out of the gloom.

Ugh. Eyes open then.

“Who are you,” she croaked. “Where are we? This is — ugh!”

The stench had hit her nostrils.

“They said that it's the river,” came the male voice again. “I'm not sure where we are or _what_ river it might be, but I've never smelt anything like it in my born days.”

There was a scraping and a clinking, the sound of metal on metal. “I'd come over there and introduce myself properly, but they've chained me to the wall.”

Wincing, she straightened slowly, moving and testing her limbs, her neck, her back. Everything was working, if a bit stiff and sore. She felt a bolt of alarm. They had _stabbed_ Tom. She had to get out, escape and get back to him. She scanned the room, desperate for something to help her.

It was fairly dark, with no windows, so she wasn't sure if it was night or day. Her eyes had adjusted a little better after a few minutes though, and she spotted an old man in the corner of the room, chained to the wall.

The Senator. The real one.

Taking a slow breath, praying her nausea would go away, she reached into her hair for one of her bobby pins and approached him slowly to avoid aggravating her sore head. “Give me your hands,” she requested.

“What are you going to do? Pick the lock with a bobby pin? They don't teach that in FBI as far as I'm aware,” the old man sniped.

Her lips thinned. She did not have time for this. Who knew if Tom had been able to call an ambulance in time? Last she'd seen, he'd been awake, screaming in pain, but conscious. She needed to get home all the same.

“That's exactly what I'm going to do. Give me your hands,” she said, glancing around the room again quickly. It was all starting to come into focus. The chair and small table in the middle of the room, both standing in a pile of oozy muck, were the only items of furniture. The door loomed ahead of her, large and heavy, but the lock looked reassuringly simple. She took the senator’s proffered hands and proficiently wiggled the bobby pin inside the locking mechanism. The cuffs sprang apart easily.

“How?” he asked wonderingly.

“How did you know I was FBI?” she demanded.

He blinked, his unkempt and bushy eyebrows dipping low in his face as he frowned up at her. “Those thugs, the small one and the massive one, they bought you in and were talking about you. Let me see,” he said, massaging his hands and wrists to get the feeling back. “They called you Ms Keen and mentioned that their boss wouldn't be happy with them kidnapping an FBI agent. They're coming back to interrogate you, too, so if you can pick that lock on the door as well as you did these handcuffs, now is the time."

“All right, Senator,” she said crisply, “Let's go.”

She didn't waste any time, and her bobby pin easily unlocked the wooden door. She stepped back as it creaked open slowly.

“I don't know if you're aware,” she began hesitantly, “but we are probably inside a work of fiction. So the chances of that god-awful river being one we’re actually familiar with, let alone this city...are slim.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She took a sharp breath. He didn't know. Well, that had been a lapse. She'd need to get used to this. She had a higher clearance than she'd ever dreamed of having in this new job, and she was very aware it was only because of Raymond Reddington. But she wanted to earn it on her own terms. Not because the “Concierge of Crime” thought she was _special._

“Never mind,” she murmured. Hoping to distract him, she added, “Have you heard the big guy, Mr Tulip — have you heard the way he talks? What does all that mean, do you you think?”

“His ‘-ing’ nonsense? I think he’s under the misapprehension that he is using foul language. I'm more worried about the things he's tried to snort up his nose. When they arrived, he was carrying you and a half-empty bottle of champagne and was literally snorting the champagne. He _tipped_ it into his nostril.” The senator shuddered. “It was the most disturbing thing I've ever seen.”

“Huh, okay then.” She raised an eyebrow. Processing _that_ could wait for later.

There was no help for it but to plunge into the street and try their luck in figuring out where they were. She barely missed a horse trampling her to death as she ducked and weaved through heavy traffic, her hand firmly around the senator’s wrist as she dragged him through the muddy streets.

They'd half-stumbled, half-raced a few streets away before she felt safe slowing down. Looking around her, she made a decision. They'd keep to the the bigger streets and look for help where they could.

She cursed Raymond Reddington. He had told her _nothing_. She supposed they would need to find a bookrunner to read them out of this book, whichever one it was, and back into the real world.

She looked around her, shielding her eyes from the harsh midday sun. She was momentarily blinded, so she didn't see the the small, stooped rat-faced man at first, with a tray of odd-looking hot dogs.

“Dibbler’s the name,” he boomed, with a voice much bigger than his frame. “C.M.O.T Dibbler. New in town? Heard of me already, I'm sure. Care for a sausage inna bun?”

“Um, I don't have any cash on me...sorry. Could you tell us though...where we are?”

The man’s eyes went wide. “Where you are? _Where you are?_ Why, you're in Ankh Morpork, of course. Greatest city on the Disc.”

“Ah,” she said faintly.

“The Disc? You mean Discworld?” said the senator brightly. “Is this a reenactment thing? Like a comic convention?”

 _Oh no_ , she thought wearily. This was going to be...difficult.

* * *

The quiet hush of the hospital made him edgy, twitching irritably in his hard bed. With his agony temporarily dulled by the truly excellent drugs of this world, his head was unfortunately clear enough to focus on the problem at hand.

It almost wasn’t a surprise to hear the clack of heels in the hallway outside, and his heart gave a quick leap as the door swung open. He smiled in welcome, pleased that she’d come to him, even though he knew it wasn’t strictly for his own sake.

She gave no answering smile as she looked down at him, her beautiful face remaining cold, her sleek black hair tucked neatly behind her ears.

“Well, George,” she said, a hint of disapproval colouring her tone. “Made a bit of a mess of things, have we?”

He choked a little on the unfairness of that. “I can hardly be held responsible for getting _stabbed_ by some two-bit thug,” he spit.

“And they _took_ the girl,” she retorted. “And Reddington is on the scene and has already made contact. If he tells her…”

“She’ll never believe it,” he interrupted, earnest and eager. “Liz is far too pragmatic.”

“ _If_ she even makes it back here,” she snapped back. “Those ‘two-bit thugs’ are dangerous men. And if we lose the girl, we lose Reddington, and _that_ cannot happen again.”

“I can’t do anything about it,” he answered, trying to keep a whine out of his voice. “I’m stuck here for at least a week. I can’t even sit up. But Liz will get back, she’s a clever girl.”

The woman raised a perfect eyebrow at that.

“She had better be. And I hope you’re not getting too close, darling,” she purred. “Remember what your job is here. And remember just who you belong to.” She stroked a long-fingered hand down his jaw.

He closed his eyes briefly. “I won’t. I won’t forget.”

“See that you don’t,” she said simply. “And make sure you get back in control of things as soon as you’re out of this bed.”

She leaned over and kissed him once, hot as a brand. “I miss you,” she breathed against his mouth, and then she was stalking away, hips swinging, so swift and assured he couldn’t be certain it had happened at all.

He was alone with his thoughts once more in the quiet hush.


	4. The Watch

A low hum of fear yammered at her as she followed the odd-looking man through the busy streets of Ankh Morpork. She listened silently as the senator waxed lyrical on one of his favorite authors.

“...and of course I've always identified particularly with the Patrician. Lord Vetinari, hmm, a smart man, very engaging, very forward thinking.”

The look on Dibbler’s face spoke of creeping discomfort as he too listened to the senator’s self-important ramblings. “Know him well, do you?”

“Oh, I've read all of the books,” said the senator. “If we weren't on our way back to FBI headquarters, I'd be happy to stay, but I'm afraid there's been a crime — several in fact. And it's past time we were back in Washington.” He looked regretfully at Dibbler. “That's really an excellent costume. You look exactly as I imagine–”

“Where are you taking us again?” Liz broke in impatiently. This job wasn't worth Tom. Her body was starting to shake a little as she tried to absorb all that had happened to her in the past twenty hours. Realistically, if Tom hadn't been able to call an ambulance within minutes after he'd been stabbed, he was probably dead. The horror of that thought couldn't possibly increase the numbness she already felt spreading out from the centre of her chest and into her face and limbs. She tried to stop her shaking, tried to listen as Dibbler paused in front of a large stone building with wide wooden doors, both bolted open.

“Pseudopolis Yard,” said Dibbler grandly, gesturing them forward up the worn stone steps.

She observed a steady stream of all sorts of creatures passing in and out of those doors. Humans, dwarves in armor, funny-looking rat people, walking rocks.

_Walking rocks_.

“What the hell,” she muttered, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. This was all too much.

There was a large, rickety desk just inside, and behind it sat what looked like...one of those small rat people, except he wasn't furry with protruding teeth in the same way she'd seen moments before. He was vaguely human, with a long, ferret-like face and patches of greasy dark hair sticking out from under his helmet at odd angles. His skin was reminiscent of the days pre-antibiotics.

The ratty man's face brightened on seeing the small party, and he stowed the soggy cigarette he had dangling from his lips with cheerful alacrity behind an over-large ear.

“Dibbler!” he exclaimed from behind the desk. He was seated leaning back in his chair, feet up on the desk with a scrap of newspaper in his hand. He waved the paper about. “Have you seen today’s Times? There's a farmer ‘ere, he's got a parsnip wot looks like a face. It's got a nose and eferything.”

Dibbler walked around the desk, bending over the strange man’s shoulder with apparent interest. “Well, I never,” he said, gawking at the small black and white photograph in the bottom corner of the last page of the broadsheet. “Coor, it looks a bit like…”

“It does, it sure does,” said the ratty man gleefully. “Wait’ll Mister Vimes gets a load of _that_. He’ll go spare.”

“Now, Nobby, I've got some visitors. Might be from... _out of town_ , if you catch my meaning. They says they've been imprisoned illegally. Found them I did, just scrambling away from the Shades. Lucky they was, to meet with me first.”

The man that Dibbler had called Nobby sat up, swinging his legs off of the desk and setting them smartly on the ground. He looked at them curiously. “What's this? I'm Corporal Nobbs of the City Watch. Who's been wrongfully imprisoned then?”

“Us,” said Liz, “and we need to get home as quickly as possible. There's two men, one of them about this high,” she reached far above her head to indicate the impossible proportions, “and the other about this high,” and she lowered her hand. “They called themselves Mr Tulip and Mr Pin.”

“The New Firm,” broke in the senator, eager to be helpful. “They called themselves the New Firm.”

Corporal Nobbs looked alarmed. “Ere, those two are from _this_ book! Are you saying you're both from the real world or just another book?”

“What...what's this now?” stammered the senator.

“We’re from the real world,” Liz said reluctantly. She wasn't sure exactly what the consequences of admitting that might be, but she needed help and she needed it now. She couldn't afford to be anything less than honest. “Is there someone in charge I can speak to? I don't know how any of this works. I've only had a very basic briefing just today, and Senator Ryker has yet to be made aware of...any of this...at all.”

Corporal Nobbs stood up, reaching for an old-fashioned telephone. “I'd better send you up then,” he muttered morosely. “He's not going to be pleased.” He punched a brief sequence of buttons.

“Mister Vimes, Sir, there are two... _real worlders_ down here to see you.” He paused. “No, I didn't ask if they were bookrunners, stands to reason, dunnit?” He flashed a grin at them as though he were the smart one in this conversation, but his face fell abruptly as he listened to the voice on the other end of the line. “Right you are, Sir, right away then.” He planted the phone back on its cradle, looking at them guiltily. “Commander Vimes will see you now. I'll show you the way, then.”

He led them up a staircase, taking two stairs at a time, and ushered them through a small door, first on the right from the landing.

A weather-beaten, middle-aged man stared at them from behind a massive desk that was piled high with an amazing amount of paperwork. He wore a breastplate of dented steel that gleamed brightly in the light shining through from the small high window behind him. Liz scanned the room quickly. A helmet was acting as a paperweight for one pile of what looked like reports with faded red covers, and there was a plate with a half-eaten sandwich of thickly cut, greasy bacon atop one of the other stacks.

“So,” he said grimly as they filed into the room, “are you bookrunners then? We don't usually get them around here, and they've always identified themselves at first sight before.”

She hesitated. But this man meant business. And he was giving her precious information without realizing it. If she ever needed to impersonate a bookrunner, she now knew some of the expected behaviors.

Before she could think of something suitable to say, the door that Corporal Nobbs had shut behind them opened again and a tall, lithe woman slipped into the room. She had thick, coarse, golden hair — the kind Liz would kill for, but that most people who had it would complain of. Her eyes were sharp and her face mobile and alert.

“Did I miss anything?” she asked.

Commander Vimes gestured towards them, stony faced. “These people are from the real world. They haven't told me their names yet, or if they're bookrunners.” He paused and added as an afterthought, “This is Sergeant Angua.”

“Listen,” Liz said desperately, “I'm Agent Liz Keen, this is Senator Daniel Ryker. We were both abducted separately and imprisoned here in this book. The senator is probably confused right now, given he doesn't have clearance for any of this,” she went on, glancing at the older man's furrowed face. “But if we don't get back soon, the men that did this to us, Mr Pin and Mr Tulip, they'll be responsible for a murder as well. One of them stabbed my husband twice. I have no idea if he's in the hospital or…”

She blinked away the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes and steeled herself. _Keep it together Liz,_ she ordered herself furiously.

Sergeant Angua ambled further into the room, her movements oddly fluid, exceptionally graceful. She walked like a gymnast or an athlete. “So, you aren't bookrunners then?” she asked them carefully.

“No. We were abducted. I keep tellin–”

“Yes, you've said,” broke in Sargeant Angua smoothly. “That's interesting. Do you know what book you're in?”

“ _The Truth_ ,” said the senator unexpectedly.

All eyes in the room turned to look at him. He gave them all a waveringly abashed smile. “Mr Pin and Mr Tulip, he said, ticking items off on his fingers as he spoke. “Ankh Morpork. The City Watch. It's all there. The book is _The Truth_. It's a Terry Pratchett novel. An excellent read.” He nodded at them encouragingly as though he'd solved all the events of the day. “A lie will go around the world before the truth can get its boots on,” he added, somewhat inanely.

Or so she thought for a moment. Then her memory caught up to her.

A lie will go…

A lie.

_Damn him_ . Reddington had flung that very phrase at her carelessly at the Post Office earlier. He had known exactly where the senator had been imprisoned, and had kept that information to himself. Oh, she was _furious_.

“That's right,” Sergeant Angua agreed approvingly, breaking into Liz’s thoughts. “But if you aren't bookrunners, why would fictional characters have an interest in you? Most unauthorized real worlders that find themselves here are up to no good, to be honest with you.”

“It's a long story,” Liz said through gritted teeth. “But the basics are, someone paid those fictional thugs to kidnap the senator. _Somehow_ , they have a doppelganger who has taken the _real_ senator’s place in order to influence a vote on some legislation...some copyright law that would affect the businesses of a particular media mogul. I was taken because I was on the case, and was getting too close.”

Commander Vimes and Sergeant Angua exchanged looks. “I suppose a new book could have been written,” said the Commander, his eyes never leaving Angua’s face.

“All it would take is an unpublished pamphlet, with the senator written in, and you'd have yourself a fictional doppelganger,” she responded slowly, looking troubled. “I've always wondered if it's been tried before. Looks like there's a first time for everything.”

Commander Vimes came around from his desk to lean casually against it. “We’ll need to apprehend Mr Pin and Mr Tulip, of course. They're the villains in this book, but if they've started to forget their place and are interfering in real world affairs… well, let's just say there are penalties for that. They'll probably need to be replaced. We’ll have to train up two completely new villains.” He rubbed a hand over his face wearily. “I might need to get the Sam Vimes in one of the other books to step in here for a while. This is going to take some sorting out.”

Angua turned toward Liz. “Do you think they'll be back yet?”

“They were going to get food,” said the senator.

Angua turned to him next. “So, they have probably returned and discovered you've escaped. That makes our job a bit more complicated, but we can work around it. How do you feel about a stake out?”

 

* * *

 

Liz sat nervously in the middle of the room she'd once been imprisoned in. Her foot wouldn't stop jiggling against the chair leg, try as she might to keep herself still. She'd argued with Commander Vimes and Sergeant Angua, but it hadn't done any good. They didn't know how she could get home if she wasn't a bookrunner with the ability to read herself back. Normally, bookrunners would keep their book on their person, and when they wanted to get back into the real world, they'd reread the same passage they'd used to get into the Fictionworld™.

“Mr Pin and Mr Tulip would be able to tell you how they got you here,” Commander Vimes had said. “It's the best we can offer, I'm afraid. Help us catch them, and we’ll ensure they're questioned. They'll give something up on how you came to be here.”

And so, she found herself on a stake out. The only concession she'd won was having the senator stay back at Pseudopolis Yard while she accompanied Sergeant Angua.

She looked over at the blonde now as the woman casually lounged against a wall, her chin resting on her chest, whistling a tuneless ditty.

She sighed, taking care not to breathe in the stench too deeply. “It's been at least an hour. Maybe they're searching the city for us?”

Angua shook her head. “They won't want to be found by the Watch. They may have done a quick check of the area, but they won't go too far unless they pop back out to the real world. They've been in and out a few times since they discovered you'd escaped. I have a…nose for these things. I suspect they'll be back to clean up the evidence that anyone was here, and then they'll probably scarper to another book for a while.”

Liz eyed the sergeant thoughtfully. This was the kind of thing she'd imagined growing up. Being a police officer, real detective work. Of course, eventually that desire had evolved into profiling. But growing up, she'd watched all the crime shows and longed to be the one in charge, catching the bad guys.

“I'm a cop too...in a way,” she offered.

“Really?” Angua didn't sound impressed.

“A profiler. I guess you could say it's my job to take the work of detectives, the crime scene, the investigation, and connect it back to a likely suspect using psychological techniques.”

“I suppose I do a similar kind of thing,” Angua said carefully.

“Oh?”

“Only...I have a special skill set. I'm often the first on a crime scene. Let's just say I can sniff out a suspect a mile away.” The Sergeant was smiling at her now, an odd look on her face. The gleam of white teeth in the fading light gave a slightly feral cast to her features.

Liz suddenly felt chilled. She didn't really know these people. For all she knew, they could have no interest in helping her. What if they were working _with_ the kidnappers?

“You don't need to worry,” Angua said, as though she'd known what Liz had been thinking. “Your friend, he knows this book. He knows we’re the good guys.”

“I'm not worried,” Liz answered quickly.

“I can smell the fear on you. You stink of it,” Angua said, wrinkling her nose for emphasis. “Try and get it under control or I'll need to do a shift swap with Corporal Nobbs.”

“I'll...wait, what? You can smell it on me? Is that a fictional character thing? Being able to smell emotions?”

“Nooo,” Angua replied reluctantly. “Tell you what, we’ll swap secrets. I'll tell you something secret about me, and you do the same.”

Liz blinked. “I don't have any secrets. Not really.”

Angua stared at her for the longest time, sniffing faintly. “You’re telling the truth,” she said, surprised. “Do you know anything about your parents? Where you were born?”

Bristling, Liz sat straighter in her chair. “I was adopted, if you must know. I don't see how that's relevant to anything.”

“Ha! You'd be surprised.”

Silence fell again as the two women sank back into their own thoughts. It wasn't so bad though. Liz didn't feel too much like talking. Sharing her quiet fear about Tom out loud would make it all seem far too real, so she held her tongue and tried to think of creative ways she'd flay Raymond Reddington alive when she saw him next. The man was impossible to deal with, in spite of...or perhaps _because_ of his infuriating charisma.

“They say that there are half-fiction creatures out there,” said Angua, interrupting thoughts that were getting increasingly dark by the minute. “Monstrous individuals spawned from the union between a fictional character and a real worlder. It's the sort of thing we use to spook children into behaving. Or the stories you tell over a jug of ale at the pub. No one really thinks those stories are true of course. Just...fairy tales.” She sniffed again, more thoughtfully this time. “But then again, real worlders don't believe in werewolves either do they?”

The chill returned to Liz’s bones. “Are you saying you're a werewolf?” she asked flatly.

“I'm not saying anything. If you don't have a secret to trade, no deal,” Angua answered, grinning at Liz.

Huffing with annoyance and feeling somewhat baited, Liz stood up, stretching her arms and legs, one at a time. It had been a while since she'd moved. “It seems like you're trying to tell me something.”

Angua shrugged. “Could be nothing at all. It's interesting what they say though.  A half-fictional creature is said to be able to walk through both fiction and the real world through sheer power of will. No need to read themselves in or out. They can skip from one book to the next on impulse.” She whistled low. “No wonder the myth is so feared. All that power, and nothing to rein it in. If _I_ were straddling two worlds, I imagine I'd be wanting to keep that secret close to my chest. I imagine I'd be careful about...who I shared that secret with.”

Liz frowned. “What–”

“Shh,” said Angua tersely, suddenly not listening to her at all, her eyes going distant, her ears practically vibrating with the strain of listening. “Can you hear that?” She shook her head. “Of course you can't. Get back into the chair,” she said, moving to the corner of the room behind the door.

Liz scrambled back into the chair in the center of the room in time to hear two voices approaching.

“Did that -ing seem like a watchman on the corner back there to you?”

“I don't care! It's time we got ourselves a ticket on the train to anywhere but here,” snapped Pin crossly.

The voices came nearer, bickering steadily as both men entered the room. They froze, staring straight at her as the door swung closed behind them.

“Hello, boys,” said Angua cheerfully from the dark corner.

 

* * *

 

“I don't suppose,” said Corporal Nobbs, poking his head around the corner, “that you want a cup of tea? I've only got enough sugar lumps left for me is all.”

Both Liz and the senator shook their heads wordlessly. It was early evening and they hadn't eaten or had anything to drink. Commander Vimes had been questioning the prisoners for hours with no luck. They weren't talking.

She thought drearily of how she'd cope if she found herself ever getting back and Tom were dead. He only had a brother and they rarely spoke. It would be unbelievably painful. A reality she just couldn't face.

“You're thinking about your husband?” the senator asked quietly. He sat in the chair next to her, as he had been for the last few hours. He'd been interested in the goings on, saying very little, just observing. He'd obviously become aware of her distress.

“I'm not sure he made it,” she said throatily, trying to contain the tears squeezing her voice.

The senator reached out a hand to hold hers. She took it gratefully. Comfort from strangers was better than no comfort at all.

Tom was a wonderful, gentle man. He didn't deserve the violence that had been visited on him. He was a _school teacher_. The kind of person who came home with kids’ drawings to post on the fridge, not the kind of person who brought homicidal maniacs into their home.

She felt guilt roiling inside of her. He was the perfect husband — textbook perfect, in fact. They thought the same way on every political, social, and economic stand she could think of. They liked the same lazy Sunday cartoons on TV, the same ice cream flavor — and he always let her have the last scoop.

Practically too good to be true, her adorable, wonderful husband. Her mind focused desperately on him — his warm voice, his woodsy smell, his loving eyes. She thought of him even as her head started to whirl and her eyes started to blur oddly.

She looked up as Commander Vimes and Sergeant Angua entered the room.

It seemed as though Angua started to speak but Liz couldn't hear anything. She held on tightly to the senator’s hand in sudden fear as her vision tunneled into a white blur.

  
Then there was nothing.


	5. The Blacklist

Just as abruptly as it had blurred, the world came back into focus.

But she wasn’t looking at the keen face of Commander Vimes, or the sharp eyes of Sergeant Angua — it was Tom she saw, _her_ Tom, lying still in a hospital bed. Multiple tubes ran in and out of him ominously, but the accompanying monitor beeped steadily and reassuringly.

“Wh-What just happened?” the senator asked shakily. “Where are we _now_?”

Ignoring him, she dropped his hand and rushed to Tom’s side, taking up _his_ hand and touching him — his forehead, his cheek, his hair — to make sure that he was real.

 _He’s so pale,_ she thought worriedly, and wondered how much blood he’d lost before help had arrived. HIs cheeks were roughly stubbled, and his face was creased in pain even in sleep. She wanted to put her head down beside his on the pillow and weep.

Instead, she stroked his forehead softly one more time, pressed a kiss gently to his lips, and turned back to the senator.

“I’m going to call my team,” she said, “And arrange for someone to come and take you for debriefing. I need to stay here with my husband.”

“You mean… we’re back?” he said, hope and doubt warring in his tone. “We’re in Washington?”

“Yes,” she answered, and despite her despair, she had to smile at him. “We’re home.”

“Oh, thank goodness.” The senator sank into the visitor’s chair by the door. “I should call…”

“I’m sorry,” Liz interrupted him gently. “You can’t call or contact anyone until you’ve been debriefed. You’ll need to be instructed by the FBI before you do anything else.”

His face fell a little, but he nodded. “I understand,” he said. “I’ll just sit and wait, then.”

Liz picked up the receiver of the phone on Tom’s bedside table, keeping one eye on the senator, just in case. By the time she connected with Agent Ressler, the senator seemed to have fallen asleep.

“Keen?” Ressler’s strident voice rang through the speaker. “Where have you _been_? It’s been hours, and your house is… well, what happened? Are you all right?” he added, almost an afterthought.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m okay, thanks,” she replied evenly. “I was abducted, my husband assaulted and stabbed, and I was taken into Fictionworld™. We’ve only just gotten back.”

“We’ve?” he said quickly. “You have Senator Ryker with you?”

“I do,” she replied, with a touch of pride. “And the two… men responsible for his abduction have been apprehended. I need you to come to Mercy and pick him up. My husband’s here, and I… I’d like to stay with him for a bit.”

“That’ll be fine,” Ressler said gruffly. “But you will have to come back to the Post Office to be debriefed, understand?”

“I understand,” she said with a sigh. “Thank you, Agent Ressler.”

* * *

Ressler came and went promptly, giving her a brief update on the status of the team, including the fact that Reddington was now staying at the Jefferson, and the highlights of their interview with the Archivist.

“He seems to have read nearly every book there is, with an eidetic memory to boot — an asset worth keeping,” Ressler finished.

Liz nodded and agreed to be at the Post Office later that afternoon. To her surprise, the senator enveloped her in a quick hug before leaving.

“You saved my life, Agent Keen,” he said warmly. “I won’t forget it.”

Then, they were gone. She dragged the visitor’s chair over to the bedside and sat down wearily, taking Tom’s hand again. She let her head fall to rest on their clasped hands, closing her eyes, just for a moment. Then there was a sudden, welcome pressure on her fingers, and Tom’s beloved voice croaked out her name.

Her head jerked back up, and their eyes met. “Tom,” she breathed in relief. “Oh Tom, are you all right? I was so scared.”

“Liz, where _were_ you?” he asked, a little pitifully. “Those men… who on earth were they? Was it just some random mugging? Did they hurt you? I can’t remember anything that happened after the little one stabbed me.”

“I… I’m okay,” she answered hesitantly. She couldn’t tell him anything, she realized. Everything she now knew about the world, the _two_ worlds, was absolutely top secret. “Those men… they’re in custody now. They’ll pay for what they did.”

“But where did they come from?” he persisted. “Liz, they could have _killed_ me. They came into our _home_. Does it have to do with your new job? Why you were dragged off by agents yesterday morning?”

“Tom, I can’t,” she said sorrowfully. “I’m so sorry, I can’t tell you anything. It’s all classified; I’d lose my job, maybe worse.”

“So, what?” he demanded, pulling his hand from hers. “It’s okay for criminals to break into our home, to assault us, to nearly _kill_ me, but I’m just supposed to nod and smile and be glad they’re gone? How often should I expect this to happen? Is this going to be our life now?”

His words hit like blows — worse, because she had no response.

“I- no, Tom, it was just…”

Stammering, she felt anger of her own start to rise. This was all Reddington’s fault — who did he think he was? Here she was, abducted, taken to a different _dimension_ ; now, sitting by her husband’s _hospital bed_ , she had nothing to offer. Why had he done this to her? Who _was_ he?

“Liz?” Tom’s faint voice recalled her with a jolt. “I’m sorry, babe, I didn’t mean… I guess I’m a little scared, too.” He offered her a rueful grin.

“Oh, Tom,” she said, tears welling. “I wish I could tell you everything, I _do_. It’s been… so crazy. And not knowing if you were okay, that was the worst part. You don’t know how happy it makes me just to sit here with you.”

“I love you, Liz,” he replied earnestly, his eyes shining. “I just want us, I want _you_ to be safe. If this new job is too dangerous, maybe…”

“Don’t worry,” she said quickly. Without quite knowing why, she knew she had no intention of turning away. “Just a bumpy start, that’s all.”

He rasped a laugh that turned into a cough. She grabbed his water cup from the bedside table and helped him take a drink.

“Okay?” she asked, smoothing back his hair lovingly.

“Yeah,” he answered, then yawned abruptly. “I’m sorry, babe, it’s the drugs they’ve got me on… make me so tired. I think… I think I’ll just sleep.”

“That’s the best thing,” she said, kissing his cheek. “You sleep. I have a few things to take care of, and then I’ll be back. I love you, Tom.”

“…mm…love you…” he murmured, already half-asleep.

 _Someone,_ she thought, rage fermenting hotly in her belly, _has to pay for this._

* * *

Coming off the elevator in a rush, she stormed down the hallway to Reddington’s suite, flashing her badge at the two agents on the door. Nodding politely, one of them opened the door and ushered her inside.

She could see him further inside, at an actual dining table, eating what looked like a gourmet meal with gusto, and doing a newspaper crossword puzzle without a care in the world. She was across the suite in a flash, the clatter of her shoes causing him to look up in surprise.

“Lizzie!” he greeted her cheerily. “You’re back safe and sound, I see. Rescued the senator, no doubt?”

“No thanks to you,” she retorted. “What’s really going on here, Reddington?”

“Why, whatever do you mean?” he asked, eyes still twinkling as if they were sharing a laugh.

“This isn’t a joke!” she screamed suddenly, the events of the past two days tumbling together with a crash. “This is my _life_ ! My husband’s _life!_ Tom almost _died!_ Did you send them? Is that what this is?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Lizzie,” he replied coolly. “Calm down and tell me what happened. Did you make it into the Fictionworld™? Rescue Senator Ryker? Capture the bad guys?”

“I…” she halted abruptly, wind taken out of her sails. “I did, but…”

“Well, that’s marvellous!” he exclaimed, beaming. “You’ve done amazingly well, Lizzie, really.”

Her fingers twitched with the need to hit him, her anger rushing back into the void with ease.

“Criminals,” she yelled, slamming her hands into the table beside him. “ _Killers_ _were_ _in my house_. They tried to _murder_ my husband! And you _knew_ , you knew who they were, knew exactly where I could find the senator, and you let me walk right into those thugs! I don’t _care_ about…”

“But they didn’t succeed in murdering anyone,” he interrupted smoothly. “And I had no idea they would come after you, Lizzie, I swear it — but everything worked out for the best. The truth is, despite your feelings, your husband doesn’t matter.”

She was so angry that her vision went black, just for a moment. Without sparing a single thought, she picked up his discarded Mont Blanc and jabbed it into the artery in his neck as hard as she could. And just like that, the fog of rage cleared, and she could breath normally for the first time since seeing Tom lying motionless in that bed.

“So,” she said to the back of his head conversationally. “You know I’ve just punched a hole in your carotid. I’d give it maybe a minute before you pass out. Here’s what you need to know: I am _not_ a piece in one of your games, and I won’t be used. If you legitimately want to help the FBI apprehend criminals, real or fictional, I will help you. _But_ , if anything like this happens again, if my husband or my home are violated… all bets are off. Clear?”

“Crystal,” he replied dryly, voice already weakening. “But, Lizzie, if I die, you’ll never know the truth about your husband.”

“You know _nothing_ about my husband,” she returned; then yanked the pen free and walked away still clutching it in her hand, slick with his blood.

His last thought before passing out, perversely, was how proud he was of the strong and resilient woman she had grown to be.

* * *

She went home. She was exhausted and filthy, her hands speckled with Reddington’s blood, every part of her faintly reeking of that obscene river. She thought she would end up burning her clothes — she stripped them off and left them in a malodorous heap on bedroom floor.

When she got into her bathroom, she was finally able to unclench her aching fingers from around the sticky pen and let it drop in the sink with a clatter. She stared at her pale face in the mirror, and for a moment, couldn’t recognize herself. The world around her felt nebulous, unsafe. Reality was no longer a surety; there was nothing left to count on.

As she climbed into the shower, let the hottest water she could stand run over her, she finally let go of the fear, the anxiety, the loss and confusion she had been bottling fiercely for two days, and wept.

* * *

When she finally re-entered the Post Office, every eye turned to stare at her. She assumed, uncomfortable, that the news of her… argument with Reddington preceded her.

“Agent Keen,” Cooper greeted her somberly as she approached. “My office, please.”

He turned and strode to the stairs that led to his small private office without a pause to see if she was following. She could feel Ressler’s eyes, stern and disapproving, following her across the cavernous room and up the half-flight of steps.

When she entered Cooper’s office, he was already seated at his desk, hands folded in front of him, watching her approach over the tops of his glasses. She wanted to say something, anything at all, but couldn’t think what. She wasn’t sorry, after all. Not one bit.

“Agent Keen, I’m frankly astonished by your behaviour. What on earth were you thinking?”

His face was more puzzled than angry; he reminded her of her own father, surprised by an uncharacteristic misdemeanour and unsure how to punish her. She felt a slight twinge of regret then — she liked Cooper, and thought he would be a good boss.

“My actions may have been a little rash, sir,” she responded, choosing her words carefully. “I had just come from my husband’s hospital room, and I was… distraught.”

“A _little_ rash?” Cooper said disbelievingly. “Keen…”

“But,” she interrupted, as politely as possible. “I don’t think there will be negative consequences. I don’t know why Reddington singled me out, but it was important to me to make it clear that I won’t be manipulated, that he can’t use me to play some twisted game.”

“A fair point,” Cooper said quietly. “But one I think you could have made without nearly killing the man — a man, I might add, who has the potential to be a crucial asset to the FBI. Whereas you, Agent Keen, are merely another rookie.”

“Sir, I don’t think…”

“That much is obvious,” he interrupted, voice a touch louder, a little harder. “I realize that you are not fully trained for field operations, Agent Keen, and that you were thrown into this whole situation blind. However, your actions were completely out of line, and make me doubt your suitability for any kind of work with the FBI.”

“Assistant Director Cooper,” she said, heart pounding frantically. “I want to assure you-”

“I’m not interested, Agent Keen.” Cooper looked down at his desk, shuffling files officiously. “The false Senator has been arrested, and the evidence Agent Ressler obtained from him has led to the arrest of Brian Darchrons. The real Senator Ryker has been fully debriefed and taken home, under guard. In recognition of your work, both here and in the Fictionworld™, you will not be dismissed, or even suspended. You and your status with the FBI, however, are officially under review.” He took off his glasses and looked at her again, his eyes almost kind. “You should go home, Agent Keen, and get some rest. Be with your husband. You’ll be notified, when a decision has been made.”

He put his glasses back on and turned away, signaling the end of their conversation. Liz, trembling with equal parts anger, fear, and exhaustion, turned and walked swiftly out of Cooper’s office, through the main room with her head held high.

She didn’t let the tears start to fall again until she was safely inside her car. Only then, with the pieces of her happy and hopeful life scattered around her like wreckage, did she wonder how she had managed to get home at all.

* * *

When they entered the boardroom, Reddington was already there, sitting at the head of the table like a king with his feet up, smiling smugly.

“Ah, gentlemen,” he boomed. “How nice to see that everyone is accounted for, healthy and happy, back in fighting trim. And Senator Ryker?”

Ressler, looking furious, took a step toward him, but Cooper stopped him with a hand on his arm, and sat down to Reddington’s right.

“Senator Ryker,” he answered calmly, “is back home, safe and sound, fully briefed, and all ready for the vote tomorrow. I’m sure that you’ll be pleased to hear that Brian Darchrons has been apprehended, and charged under the Patriot Act.”

“What was this really about, Reddington?” Ressler demanded impatiently.

“Why, Donald, your skepticism shocks me,” Reddington drawled. “I believe I made it clear that this was really about apprehending a couple of dangerous criminals from the Fictionworld™ — and, of course, saving a life.

“It was fun,” he continued cheerily. “Let’s do it again.”

Cooper and Ressler glanced at each other warily. Reddington dropped his feet to the floor with a slam that made them both start.

“No, really,” he said, all cheer dropped from his tone, his face cold and his body set. “Let’s do it again. Pin and Tulip, that putz Darchrons, they were small fish — and they were only the first.”

“The first what?” snapped Ressler aggressively.

“Names,” Reddington answered, with a smile that was more frightening than pleasant. “On the list.”

“What _list_?” Ressler looked about to blow a fuse; Cooper actually looked interested.

“My list, of course. Let’s call it the Blacklist. That sounds exciting.” He leaned forward, intense now. “It’s the real reason I’m here, the reason we’re all here. My own little wishlist, one I have been building for twenty years. The blackest hearts to walk the pages of fiction, oozing into the real world, colluding with criminals, wreaking havoc.”

“We have our own list,” Ressler said defensively.

“Oh Donald, don’t be ridiculous,” Reddington replied dismissively. “We all know that the FBI’s Top Ten is nothing more than a publicity stunt. As for this… ‘Fiction Task Force’, you spend your time chasing shadows. I’m talking about the real baddies, ones you don’t even know about because you can’t see past their characters.

“And if you want my list, you are going to play by my rules. I never sleep in the same place more than two nights in a row, and I move in and out of fiction as I please. I want access to your full library whenever I need it. I want my personal bodyguard working with me — his name is Dembe Zuma, and you can contact him here.”

Reddington slid a file folder across the table. Cooper took it, meeting his eyes curiously.

“And finally, most importantly,” Reddington said, his voice dark and firm. “I speak only with Elizabeth Keen.”


	6. Elixir of Youth

“Mix one cup of warm water with one tablespoon of ammonia,” Liz muttered, standing over the kitchen sink with the ammonia in hand. She measured out the tablespoon into the bucket in precise amounts, then lifted the bucket out of the sink and hauled it into the living room. Her shoulders slumped fractionally as she surveyed the hideous mess of blood-stained carpet.

Kneeling on the carpet, she slipped the rubber gloves on and set to work scrubbing. She scrubbed and scrubbed, and still the blood only seemed to leech out further, morphing into a sickeningly pink hue. The color, along with the smell of the ammonia, was enough to turn her stomach and bring stinging tears to her eyes.

What was the point? She could never unsee the gore, Tom on the floor, bleeding from terrible knife wounds. She would never see this carpet again without violently jolting images of the home invasion assaulting her memory.

Impulsively, she dropped the cloth back into the bucket of warm water. She'd been crouched in the same position for so long that she groaned as she stood up and stretched. This wasn't getting her anywhere. She needed to take this from a different angle.

She went in search of a pair of scissors, a sudden and exciting idea popping up. They hadn't redecorated since buying the apartment. It had been something she'd always wanted to do and  this carpet was old and worn anyway. It was ridiculous really to try and salvage what was already a threadbare floor covering. There was no need. She much preferred polished floorboards and now was the time to make the change.

Eagerly, she set to work ripping up the carpet. In the back of her mind, she knew she was just seeking out something, anything in fact, to distract her from the out-of-control trajectory that her life had recently taken. Redecorating wouldn't bring Tom home any quicker or get rid of Raymond Reddington or the existence of a whole other world from her life. But for now, it was a welcome occupation.

She slid her hand along the rough floorboards. It would take some work. She'd need to do as much of it herself as possible with their limited budget, but it could be done. If she rented an electric sander and went to Home Depot for some mahogany wood stain…

Her hand stopped over a join in the wood. What was that? An odd-looking cutout, looking very much like a trapdoor. She dug her fingers underneath the wood, lifting it up with some difficulty.

It was funny, she knew it looked exactly like a trapdoor when she'd pulled it up from the floor but looking down into the hollow space now, she was completely surprised. What on earth was a trapdoor doing in her little apartment? A medium to large brushed metal box sat in the centre of the space. It looked shabby and dinged up. She reached for it, bringing it out of its nesting spot and onto the floorboards.

It wasn’t particularly heavy, and it wasn’t locked. She hesitated one brief moment, then lifted the lid carefully. With some surprise, she found herself looking at piles of neatly folded clothing — but not clothing that she recognized or would have ever expected.

Completely oblivious now to the ragged pieces of bloodstained carpet around her, she wonderingly lifted out piece after piece of men’s period costume — a crisp white shirt with a raised collar that was wrapped in something between a necktie and a scarf; a high-buttoned vest in tweed, with a small collar — a waistcoat, she thought; a jacket that looked about waist-length in front but with long tails hanging from the back; a pair of slim, fine wool trousers that fastened at the hip. Underneath it all was a pair of shiny black shoes with ridiculously pointed toes and a tall hat with a wavy, rounded brim that looked sort of like a top hat, but not quite.

When she picked up the jacket and shook it out, a cloth-wrapped bundle fell to the floor with a clunk. She cautiously picked up the worn linen and unwrapped it, revealing a long wooden pistol with a curved handle, a short metal bore, and what she thought might be a flintlock. Not wanting to take any chances, she placed the pistol gently on the floor.

Consumed with curiosity, she rifled through the pockets of the coat, and came up with a heavy gold pocket watch and some tarnished coins that looked British, but certainly not current. A small enamelled box full of black powder that made her sneeze — _snuff?_ she wondered thoughtfully.

Liz sat back on her heels, completely bemused. These clothes… they were period, but clearly not old. The fabrics were fresh and clean, colours rich and bright — put together, it looked like an outfit that had been worn once or twice, but was otherwise fairly new. The gun looked clean and taken care of; when she gingerly wound the watch, it ticked away solidly. Then, from the front pocket of the pants, she fished out a soft leather bound notebook, filled with page after page of ink-blotted descriptions of places and people, lists of names, some of which she thought she recognized from classics of literature.

_A bookrunner_ , she thought. _Or…or someone fictional. But why here?_

Just for an instant, she heard an echo of Reddington’s voice — _be careful, Lizzie_ ; _your husband doesn’t matter_ — and the traitorous thought of Tom flashed through her head. She angrily banished it just as quickly — it was ridiculous. Her sweet, scruffy Tom could be no one but the man she knew and loved.

There was only one person who could have put these things into her home. And he was going to answer for it.

* * *

It was early morning when she received the call from “Nick’s Pizza”. The taciturn bodyguard, Dembe, had instructed her to meet with Reddington at a park only three blocks from her house. It made her wonder if he knew where she lived.

Who was she kidding? Of course he knew where she lived.

Standing stock still on the gravel pathway, she surveyed the busy park. Large tall trees shaded the walk and an expanse of springy green grass stretched out on both sides. It was an inviting picture, a perfect space to play a game of ball on the green or a game of chess over on the cluster of tables to her right where a group of elderly men sat in quiet concentration, focused narrowly on their game.

In another moment she spotted him, sitting a little apart from the older men. He was lounging on a seat, engrossed in his own game of chess. As she strode over to him, she noticed that he appeared to be playing both sides.

She slid into the seat across from him. “Did you do it? Did you plant those clothes and the gun?”

“Good morning Lizzie! It's lovely to see you.”

Leaning forward, frustration coloring her tone, she hissed, “I know it was you. What game are you playing?”

“Chess, as a matter of fact. Do you play?”

“Don't play games with me!”

“I'll take that as a no.” The corners of his mouth turned down slightly after he spoke.

The two of them sat staring at each other, a test of wills perhaps. He, in his light tan and cream three-piece suit and fedora, lounging like a big cat in the sun and her, in her dark grey business suit, shoulders tensed, leaning forward still, certain that he had planted some sort of evidence in her house to — what? To make it look like her husband was a bookrunner? It didn't make sense.

“What's your angle? What did you call me here for?”

Pursing his lips, he lifted a newspaper from the table, handing it to her. “Page five. Two supposedly American entrepreneurs launched a start-up selling organic and biodynamic beauty products eighteen months ago. Their base is in China. They've been _extraordinarily_ successful and this month are launching a new product. It's called _Elixir of Youth.”_

“So?” She questioned testily, her eyes quickly scanning the paper. It seemed as though it was going to be one hell of an event, with a lot of Hollywood stars and other big names being bandied about in the article. “What's this got to do with the FBI?”

He laughed airily in a manner that had her clenching her teeth. “Now have a look at page one. There's been a spate of murders in Beijing, initially only homeless children and all dumped in the same area, just outside of the city. What makes this so interesting is recently they have found that some of these children are not Chinese nationals. Some are Caucasian in appearance, some African, some Indian. Children from all over the world, really. The Chinese government saw fit to cover up these murders when it was just their own homeless youth turning up dead, but now that it's become apparent that it's a bigger problem...well, your country’s media is _very_ interested.”

“Well then, I assume we’re already dealing with it through the appropriate channels, so unless you know who is committing these murders, I'd–”

“I do.”

She blinked. “Okay, who?”

He tapped the paper still in her hand. “These two witches.”

“That's rude,” she replied, frowning at him.

“No really, they're witches, completely fictional.”

“You expect me to believe that these women are what? Fictional characters that have been here at least eighteen months, have started a high profile business, made connections with the rich and famous, and the FBI hasn't caught up with them yet?”

He opened his mouth and closed it, then opened it again. “Yes.”

After that it was a battle to prise anything more from him. She stood and paced, muttering her fury to him under her breath.

“Do you have any _idea_ how foolish I'm going to look taking this to the task force? Do you even have a motive? Why would they risk being discovered? Murder of multiple children? That's the surest way to attract the wrong kind of attention.”

He watched her pacing, his brow slightly creased as though he held concern for her agitation. She threw him a dirty look as she paced. It was all an act, she was sure of it, his concern put on to make her think he cared. He was a puppet master, and an excellent one. He wanted to make her _think_ he knew things about her.

Maybe he did.

She sat down again, crossing her arms and leaning back. “Tell me what you know about bookrunning.”

An eyebrow rose in delicate, and what looked to her like slightly feigned, surprise. “I would have thought Harold Cooper would have briefed you quite thoroughly. Really–”

“Well, he didn't.” She leaned forward, flicking a glance left and right and lowering her voice to a whisper. “I got back just by _thinking_ about home and Tom.”

That got his attention. “Have you told anyone else?”

“No, I wasn’t sure what–”

“Don’t. Say nothing, not to _anyone_. We’ll talk about this — later. Right now, I believe we have a case to attend to.”

Before she could say anything, he stood, adjusted his hat smartly, and offered her his hand. She stood up on her own, brushing brusquely past him, unsure why she’d thought she might get a straight answer out of him.

* * *

“So.” Cooper’s voice was dryly skeptical. “You’re telling us that Clara DuBois and Amethyst Abrams, ground-breaking entrepreneurs and owners of Eternal Organics, are a pair of fictional witches? Witches that have been testing their products on children?”

“Stranger things happen every day,” Reddington answered cheerfully. “And I certainly cannot take responsibility for your ineptitude, Harold. The more important question is, what are you prepared to do about it?”

“Well, I’m sure you have a suggestion,” Ressler said snarkily.

“Well, as it happens, Donald, I _do_. I happen to have received an invitation to the debut of Eternal Organics’ latest product, _Elixir of Youth_. My first suggestion would be that I attend.”

“On your own?” Ressler burst out. “You’ve got to be–”

“Of course, not, Donald, don’t be ridiculous.” Reddington gave a hearty laugh and slapped Ressler on the back — not so chummily. “I thought…”

His voice trailed off as another person strode into the Post Office’s main room. Liz was vaguely heartened to note the presence of another woman — long, dark hair; a lean, muscular build; and a fierce, no-nonsense expression. She gave Liz a curt nod; gestured in brief acknowledgement in the general direction of Ressler and Cooper.

“So, what have I missed?” she asked, her lilting voice direct and firm.

“And who might you be?” Reddington asked, eyes intent behind his twinkling charm.

“Ah,” Cooper said. “Let me introduce the… well, I suppose it’s the sixth member of our little team, Samar Navabi. An extremely accomplished bookrunner on loan to us from the Mossad.”

“Delighted, I’m sure,” Reddington replied, and took the woman’s hand to kiss it warmly.

Liz rolled her eyes impatiently, but then stopped to think. If this was the FTF’s bookrunner, maybe she could provide Liz with some of the answers she sought. Maybe she didn’t have to depend on Reddington for everything she needed, after all.

“Well, Agent Navabi,” Reddington continued, “you’re just in time for assignments. We’re headed to Beijing, just in time for the party of the year. You, Agent Navabi, and you, Donald, will accompany me as my bodyguards. Donald, _do_ try not to trip over anything.”

“And me?” Liz put in, not sure if she wanted to stay or go. “What am I supposed to be? Waitstaff?”

“Oh goodness, no, Lizzie,” Reddington boomed. “You’re my plus one.”

* * *

Liz stood in the elevator, nervously plucking at the lace overlay of her cocktail dress. She knew she wouldn’t blend in at this gala of the rich and famous — this _elevator_ was fancier than the nicest place she’d ever been, for Pete’s sake. She dreaded the moment when the doors would open and she would have to face Reddington, suave and debonair.

The Hotel Éclat, smack in the middle of Beijing’s bustling business district, was an enormous glass temple to opulence. The room she had been given was so rich and elegant that she was afraid to even sit on the edge of the bed — she hoped dearly that she wouldn’t actually have to sleep there.

Gripping her clutch ( _now_ , she knew why it was called that), she took a deep breath as the elevator came to a halt with a gentle ping, and the doors swept open. Doing her best not to fidget, she stepped off the elevator to a rear view of Reddington, with Ressler and Navabi standing a little further away in matching black suits, looking appropriately stiff.

At the sound of the elevator, of her heels on the marble floor, Reddington turned. His prepared smile widened into genuine pleasure, his eyes warming, body straightening, as he took her in.

“Lizzie,” he greeted her softly, voice richly appreciative. “How lovely you are.”

He held out his arm, and this time, she took it, needing the support for her nerves as much as to complete their façade. At least she knew that Tom was safe and sound in the hospital for another week, minimum, with a discreet FBI guard on his floor. She closed her eyes for a moment to clear her mind, and start the game.

“Right this way, Lizzie,” Reddington murmured politely, ushering her forward.

They walked down the hall, Ressler and Navabi falling in behind them, perfectly in step. As they entered the lobby of the ballroom, Reddington leaned over to whisper in her ear.

“Welcome to The Cocoon, Lizzie. One of the finest venues of its kind in the world. Let’s circle the room, shall we?”

He guided her through the crowd smoothly, bestowing a greeting here, a nod of the head there. _Totally in his element_ , she thought ruefully, _while it’s all I can do not to gape like a country hick_. She gazed around the glamorous room, everything bright and gleaming. The perimeter was formed by a lush garden of plants — “All real, Lizzie, even the grass,” Reddington assured her. It was unreal.

A hush fell over the assemblage then, as two women mounted a raised platform at the end of the room. One was enormously tall and strikingly beautiful, her clear, pale skin set off with coils of dark hair and blood-red lips. The other appeared almost comically short beside her companion, but was attractive enough, with golden skin and hair alike — one was distracted from noticing it due to the jeweled eyepatch she wore over one eye.

“Hello, everyone and welcome! I’m Clara DuBois,” the taller one began, her voice ringing out through the room like a bell, “and this is my partner Amethyst Abrams. We’re _so_ glad that you could all join us tonight as we unveil our most exciting product to date, _Elixir of Youth_!”

The smaller of the two women revealed a small crystalline bottle from under a dark velvet cloth with a flourish. Amidst the applause and puffs of smoke that ensued, Reddington leaned in again, so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath against her neck.

“There they are,” he murmured, “the White Witch of Narnia and the Wicked Witch of the West in the Land of Oz, peddling beauty, manipulating humanity like masters of the craft.”

“What, those two?” Agent Navabi’s voice came from behind them, clearly disbelieving. “While I completely covet the shorter one’s shoes, shouldn’t those be _ruby_ slippers? And I have to say, neither of them looks particularly green to me.”

“Oh, but those are details introduced by the movie,” Liz said eagerly. “In the book, the magical shoes are silver, and the wicked witch isn’t green. Really, she’s barely described at all.” She paused, noticing the other three were staring at her with varying degrees of incredulity; Reddington with something that looked like pride.

“It… _The Wonderful Wizard of Oz_ was my favourite book. As a kid,” she finished, a little lamely.

“You’ll recall as well, then, Lizzie,” Reddington said, “that she only had the one eye.”

“That’s true,” Liz said, glancing at Ressler and Navabi and nodding. “I mean, it _could_ be her. And I don’t remember as much about Narnia, but the White Witch, she was half-giant, right?”

“Very good, Lizzie,” Reddington beamed. “Take a closer look at her right hand, why don’t you — you too, Donald, Samar.”

She looked, and was shocked to see that although Clara’s face remained serene, beautific smile in place, her right hand had clenched so firmly around a spoon that it was bent double, curved backward into itself. As she watched, Clara twisted the bent metal further, until the spoon was nothing but a tiny silvery ball that she dropped to the table behind her.

“That’s incredible,” Ressler muttered, sounding more impressed than anything.

Liz was about to retort when a flash of movement in the garden behind the two supposed witches caught her eye. A girl, maybe eleven or twelve, with dark hair and wearing a ruffled blue-checked dress, emerged from behind a hedge to whisper in the ear of the shorter woman, Amethyst. The woman frowned briefly, then rapped out what seemed to be instructions, as the girl listened intently, then ran back into the garden.

“Who do you suppose that was?” Liz asked Reddington curiously.

“What say we follow her, and find out?”

Still arm-in-arm, the two made their way through the chattering, excited crowd to the back of the room, Ressler and Navabi close behind. Tugging at Reddington’s arm, Liz led the way through the hedges and into the beautiful garden.

“Which way do you suppose she went?” she asked breathlessly.

“Look there,” he replied, his tone sharp and alert. “At the foot of that tree. Is that an opening?”

They approached cautiously, keeping their eyes open and ears perked.

“It is,” she said, as soon as they were close enough. “Look, there are steps. Should we…go down?”

He grinned at her, suddenly boyish. “Why not? You two bodyguards stay here, and…guard the way out.”

Liz took the precaution of kicking off her shoes, then bent to follow Reddington downward. She felt a hand grab her elbow and looked back.

“Watch your step, Keen,” Ressler hissed. “You have no idea what you could be walking into here.”

“I think I’ll manage,” she snapped, yanking her arm from his grasp. She continued down the winding steps, reaching ahead to feel the reassuring warmth of Reddington’s back in front of her in the darkness.

“Never fear, Lizzie,” his quiet voice whispered back to her. “There’s light ahead.”

He stopped short a few steps later, and she almost rammed full into his back.

“What is it?” she murmured. “What’s wrong?”

“Just look,” he answered, voice truly shaken.

He shifted to the side so that she could creep up beside him. She had to cover her mouth with both hands to smother the horrified gasp that escaped her.

A long tunnel stretched out ahead of them and on either side of the tunnel were brightly lit, glass-panelled rooms filled with children.

“Oh no,” she groaned, her fists clenched and trembling now by her sides.

Each room was filled to bursting with children. Some looked quite young, some almost teenagers. She had to struggle to keep her composure, to keep quiet. She crept forward to get a closer look. The children in the first small room to the right were covered in sores. Their heads were shaven and they looked malnourished, clothed in hospital gowns that hung loosely off their skeletal frames.

“Why?” She whispered, devastated at the lacklustre looks she was receiving from the children through the thick glass panels. They didn't seem to realize or care that rescue was imminent.

“Because their products work, given the active ingredients are more than likely from the Fictionworld,” Reddington answered grimly. “And because there are dangers in using resources from the Fictionworld in our world. I expect that the witches perfected their ‘elixir’ through a lot of trial and error. And it seems these poor devils were the lab rats.”

She swallowed, her throat painfully dry. Nothing could prepare her for this. She wasn't sure that Reddington had truly been expecting this either, given the disturbed expression on his face.

She took quick stock of the clipboards affixed to the wall next to each room. One column listed a series of numbers...as if they were identification numbers, and the next column had what was probably ages, and then a description of sorts. She moved down the tunnel, reading each one as she went.

“...Water of life from _The Neverending Story_ ,” she read aloud.

Reddington moved further down, bending to read another clipboard. “This one says leaf litter from _The Magic Faraway Tree._ ”

“Is that what's doing this to these kids? How could _leaf litter_ bring out sores the size of my palm?”

He shook his head. “I told you, some things brought back from the Fictionworld are not meant for human consumption. They've clearly been testing out the magical properties of these items to see what works and what doesn't. Come,” he said imperiously, “there doesn't seem to be any lock or mechanism to open these panels but something has to operate them. I imagine there's a central control room. We need to find it and quickly.”

They moved silently down the tunnel until they reached an intersection. The narrow tunnel went on as far as they they could see in either direction. Room upon room on each side just filled with children.

“You go left, I'll go right,” she said decisively, ignoring his dubious glance. “I have my weapon in my purse. I assume you're armed?”

He nodded. “Just be careful. I don't intend to lose you. We still have much to discuss when this is over,” he said cryptically, turning on his heel and striding down the tunnel away from her.

She stood for a moment just staring after him, her thoughts momentarily derailed. _He didn’t intend to lose her?_ That spoke of an intimacy that she didn't believe existed between them. Was she connected to him somehow?

She didn't have time to wonder further as she skirted her way carefully down the right side of the tunnel, her weapon retrieved from her purse and the safety off.

It didn't take long to reach another intersection. She hesitated for a moment before turning right again. It was only another fifty paces before she came across a door. The first door she'd seen that wasn't glass panelling. It was a heavy, industrial steel door — and it was ajar.

Silently praying that she'd find a control room, she eased the door open wide to find a small office bedecked with surveillance equipment and a whole wall filled with filing cabinets. Folders were stacked everywhere on the desk. She crept forward to get a better look at a small control pad sitting to the left of a computer on the desk. It _did_ look a lot like an override button. It was a basic, flat red button, similar to a fire alarm.

If she hadn't been so engrossed in her internal debate on whether or not to press the button, she might have heard the slight squeak of the door. She did, however hear the scuff of a shoe on the polished cement floor a split second before she felt immense pain as something heavy and solid connected with her temple. She managed to stagger forward, spinning around to face her attacker. Before she was hit again, she saw a flash of blue and white checked gingham and then a painful throbbing flash of light. And then nothing.


	7. Wicked

It was the throbbing pain that woke her, her right temple pounding like drum. _So_ , she thought grouchily, dizzy and sick, _field work and head injury apparently go hand-in-hand_. _Lovely_.

It was only when she tried to raise a hand to feel for the lump surely decorating her skull that she realized she was restrained. She blinked her eyes open, groaning as the glaring light that greeted her exacerbated her pain.

She was on a gurney in one of the glass-panelled rooms, shackled with hospital restraints at her wrists and ankles. She gingerly turned her head, trying to take in more of her surroundings, and saw the very child they’d followed into this pit standing beside her, watching her curiously.

Liz might not be a bookrunner, she might be new to this task force, this world, but she wasn’t an idiot either. After all, she’d been telling the truth when she claimed _The Wonderful Wizard of Oz_ as a favourite book.

“Dorothy?” she rasped out, trying to keep her tone gentle. “Can you please help me? Unbuckle these restraints? I’m with the FBI — we’re here to help you, and all the children, but the Wicked Witch is here, and I’m afraid…”

Her voice dwindled away as the girl in front of her started to laugh. _What on earth…?_

“Oh, please,” Dorothy said scornfully. “I _know_ she’s here. I came here with her — who do you think manages all these brats? Come to that, who do you think tied you down in the first place?”

Liz just stared at her, mind racing, unable to process what she was hearing.

“I’m not some sweet little lost prairie girl, you know,” Dorothy continued, with a contemptuous eye roll. “My book was written well over 100 years ago. I’ve been around the block, lady, and I can tell you, being a good girl gets you nowhere. Just putting on the act when I’m being read is tiresome enough, believe you me.

“Ja- Clara and Amy, they’ve really hit the jackpot with this Elixir of Youth scam. Once the money starts pouring in, we’ll be able to set up here permanently, and leave that musty old Fictionworld™ behind for good. Now, I think I’d better just go and let Amy know you’re here — she’ll be pretty excited at the chance to try out the Elixir on her first adult.

“Don’t go anywhere…”

As Dorothy trotted away, her merry, child-like laughter sent chills down Liz’s spine. There was obviously a lot more to the Fictionworld™ than it appeared at first glance — or even the second or third. She gave herself a little shake, and began tugging at and twisting in her restraints, trying to jar something loose enough to slide out even one hand or foot.

She was just wondering if she dared call out for Reddington when he appeared in the doorway, tuxedo still immaculate, one eyebrow raised in sardonic amusement.

“Run into a spot of trouble, have we, Lizzie?” he asked, the smile evident in his voice, although his face remained relatively serious.

“That much is obvious,” she replied dryly. “Now can we skip the sarcasm, and go straight to letting me out of these things? We’ve got to move quickly, before those witches get back down here — that horrid little Dorothy wants to experiment on me.”

He frowned as he unbuckled her right hand. “I’ve never run into Dorothy before,” he said thoughtfully. “Black hat, is she?”

“She’s awful!” Liz burst out, reaching over to release her left hand while Reddington moved down to her feet. “Dorothy is supposed to be good-natured and sweet and cheerful.”

“Consider the denizens of Fictionworld as actors,” he suggested, his large, warm hands rubbing life back into her stiff ankles. “Their character is just that — a character, a role they must play. Outside of their book, they are individuals, just as we are.”

“I can see there’s still quite a lot I need to know,” she said, sitting up and then hopping off the gurney. “If you want me to work with you,” she continued firmly, “I’m going to need a lot more background.”

“Oh, I have a great deal to teach you, Lizzie,” he answered. “But now is not the time. We have some fictional characters to apprehend. Let’s get upstairs and enlist the services of Agents Ressler and Navabi, shall we? We’ll see if we can endeavour to handle things without making too much of a scene.”

Liz rolled her eyes as she followed him out of the glass enclosure and back toward the staircase. _Honestly_ , she thought, _we’re professionals, after all_.

* * *

Agents Ressler and Navabi stood by the entrance to the underground tunnel. It wasn't easy to look like you were casually enjoying each other's company at a cocktail party when you were hovering over some strange doorway in matching black suits. Ressler glowered darkly, while Navabi kept a pleasant expression plastered to her face.

_He certainly doesn't look like he's having much fun,_ thought Navabi acerbically. “Would you stop looking like you're from the secret service? It's only going to attract attention,” she hissed at him.

A waiter floated past them, a tray of champagne in one hand. Navabi scooped up two glasses, handing one to him pointedly. “You need to look like _private_ security, not FBI. Loosen up a little, stop frowning.” 

“I'm not frowning,” he snapped, his frown deepening. “I just don't think it was a good idea, letting Keen go down there with Reddington alone.”

“Why? I thought she was a recent Quantico graduate? She may not have your experience but she's had the same training as you.”

He smirked. “Yeah, there's more to it than that. She was slated to join a team at head office. She's a profiler. Just because she's done the training doesn't mean she's ready to be a field agent.” He shook his head. “You've had a look at his file. What do you make of it?”

Navabi raised an eyebrow, pursing her lips thoughtfully. “Well, he disappeared suddenly in 1990. He was supposed to be coming off an assignment — classified — I couldn't read any of the material on it, could you?”

Ressler hesitated, clearly unsure about whether or not he ought to tell his Mossad colleague his clearance level. He shook his head though. “Nope, all classified. But I did have a gut feeling about it. He comes off assignment then just disappears? On Christmas Eve? Not a word to his family. Something never seemed right about that and I've been studying every detail on this jerk for years.”

Navabi nodded encouragingly. “So he shows up…here actually, wasn't it? Bejing? Four years later with an original manuscript for Harper Lee’s _To Kill a Mockingbird._ There was an uproar, from what I read. It almost caused an international incident. China’s state-sanctioned bookrunners have apparently taken good care of it, but I doubt the U.S. is ever getting that one back

“And _that's_ when we found out he was a bookrunner. A team was assembled; to be honest, he was one of the main reasons there's a fictional task force at all. Aside from the odd spook hidden away in black sites, you didn't get much investigation into traffic between the worlds. Until Reddington started selling off resources, flooding the market here with gold from _Treasure Island_ or military equipment so futuristic that it shouldn’t even work — but because it's written...somehow it just does. He got so dangerous that he just couldn't be ignored anymore.”

Navabi tried to hide a smile. “You've got to hand it to him, the man’s got chutzpah. I don't think there's been anyone in the history of bookrunning, so...creative in their endeavors.”

“Yeah, well, you better hope he isn't leading us down the garden path with this blacklist. The man always has an angle, just remember that. I can't think what angle he has with Keen but it can't be good.”

Before he even finished speaking, a young girl, the very same girl who had raced into the tunnel earlier, popped out of the entranceway and sped off like a rabbit.

Both agents looked at each other, blinking. “I'm gonna see what that's about,” said Ressler quickly. “You stay here.”

* * *

Leaving Navabi behind, and secretly glad to do so, Ressler power walked in the direction he'd seen the girl take off. He didn't like the way Navabi’s mouth twitched when she spoke about Reddington. She seemed _amused_ that he'd escaped FBI custody thus far. 

He felt a prickle of unease as he made his way across the room, following the last sight of a flash of blue and white that he'd seen in the corner. Just as he arrived in the short L shaped hallway before the lobby, he stopped in his tracks, hearing an intense conversation, whispered urgently between a young girl and what sounded like the Wicked Witch of the West.

“...she's FBI.”

“What did you do with her?”

“Strapped her to a gurney. We can't let her go now. Didn't you say you wanted adults to test on? Well, here's your chance.”

His fingers clenched around his champagne glass. So, Keen was captured. He was unsurprised. This is what he'd been trying to say earlier to Navabi. She wasn't prepared for field work. And now he'd have to save her ass. Reddington probably hadn't stuck around. The FBI had been ridiculously trusting of him so far. There was no way he was still down there.

“Dangerous, _foolhardy girl_ ,” hissed the witch, her voice suddenly becoming louder.

He flicked a look over his shoulder, debating whether or not to follow and rescue Keen or continue listening in to this _very_ fruitful conversation.

All it took was a split second of inattention, and the next thing he knew, the witch had cannoned into him, tumbling into his chest. His glass of champagne was full to the brim (no drinking on duty) and it splashed up out of the elegant champagne flute and onto the powdered face and neck of the horrified witch.

It was like a silent tableau, the two of them standing and staring at each other in unmixed horror. One of them mortified to have been caught spying, the other in a state of pure terror. The girl in the ruffled dress stood a little behind the witch, her own eyes wide and frightened, staring at him. For a few more moments they all stood there frozen. Then he started to wonder what the big deal was. It was just a glass of champagne.

It was then that he began to understand.

The witch’s skin sizzled and hissed, steam pouring off of skin as pale as a fish’s underbelly. Her one good eye glared at him fiercely. She pushed past him, stumbling desperately out into the main room, the girl following anxiously behind.

“I’m-I'm melting,” she cried throatily.

And she was. She _really was_. Her skin was literally...pouring off of her like melted wax. She fell to her knees as her face disintegrated and her torso began to bubble and melt too.

It was the most horrific thing he had ever seen. It wasn't even like a human being dying. It was as if she were a waxwork doll that had been placed under a giant flame. She just...dripped into a puddle, her clothes folding into a heap on the floor.

There was a moment of astonished silence before the first cry of alarm. Then all bets were off. There was a stampede for the elevators in the lobby, terror etched into the faces of the men and women seeking to escape from whatever monstrous disease or virus that had killed one half of the power behind the throne that was Eternal Organics.

“Hey! Hey!” He yelled into the crowd of panicked guests. Everyone had their elbows out demonstrating that they were quite willing to use them, viciously if need be, in order to reach the elevator first. “Hey! Listen up everyone! Form an orderly line! Navabi! Help me, will you?” He yelled across the room to the open-mouthed agent standing at the far end, still guarding the underground entrance.

* * *

Reddington had stopped at the top of the staircase; Liz, lost in a tumult of thoughts, nearly ran into him.

“Hey,” she said, startled. “Reddington? What gives?”

He jumped a little at the sound of her voice, and moved aside so that she could come out beside him.

She was greeted by chaos.

Party guests scattered frantically in all directions — some shrieking, some jabbering frantically into cell phones, others cursing and shoving. She spotted Ressler and Navabi, fighting their way toward one another through the milling crowd, shouting for order; the tall, willowy form of Clara DuBois, weaving her way to the end of the room.

In the centre of it all was a small circle of floor, avoided by everyone in the room. Leaning forward on her toes, Liz could see a heap of shimmering black cloth, smoking faintly. The girl Dorothy knelt beside it, weeping softly into her hands.

“Is that what I think it is?” she breathed in disbelief.

“Oh yes, I think so,” Reddington replied, sounding faintly amused. “It seems as if someone has done away with the Wicked Witch. My money’s on Agent Ressler — he seems like the banana-peel type.”

Liz rolled her eyes, and struggled through the crowd toward Navabi, wanting to assess the situation in full. The second…witch was no longer in sight. Red, unable to keep the smirk off his face, wandered over to Dorothy and crouched down beside her.

“It must have been a challenging life,” he said solemnly. “Being so…soluble.”

The child turned her tear-streaked face to his, anger replacing the desolation painted there.

“You…You _pig_!” she spat. “You think that you’re such a master of Fiction, but you know nothing, _nothing_ of what’s really going on, of the power that we wield. But you’ll find out.”

She moved as if to rise and run; his hand whipped out like a snake striking and grasped her arm in a firm grip.

“Ah, ah,” he said mildly. “Don’t run off now. I believe those nice agents from the Fiction Task Force will want to have a few words.”

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, the room was quiet again, the crowds finally cleared. Dorothy had been taken into custody, and the…remains of the Wicked Witch of the West, aka Amethyst Adams, had been bagged carefully and taken into evidence.

Liz was exhausted, body and soul. One look at the ballroom, however, told her that her night was far from over.

There were local cops swarming the place, along with emergency services evacuating the children down below. She did a slow turn on her heel, taking in the dreadful picture, a steady line of battered children arriving from the bowels of the earth one by one, swaddled in blankets or brought out on gurneys. All rescued because of one criminal. Raymond Reddington. She looked over at him then. He was bent down on one knee, talking softly but intently with a Chinese boy, who looked about 10 or 11. As she approached, she heard the faint undertone of Mandarin that Reddington spoke. He saw her and stood, patting the boy reassuringly on the shoulder as two medics came over to attend him.

“Well, all right then,” Reddington said cheerfully as the boy was led away. He had his hands in his pockets, rocking jauntily on his feet. “The White Witch, aka Jadis, aka Clara DuBois, took a leap off that balcony over there just after we came back up,” he pointed to a balcony across the room. “I assume with her unnatural strength and dexterity that she is alive and well, and has probably made it back into Fictionworld through one of the waypoints in Beijing.”

“Waypoints?” questioned Liz curiously. It felt like the first day of school and _everyone_ seemed to know more than her.

“Waypoints are a scourge on the Fiction Task Force,” said Samar, approaching Liz from behind and nodding to Reddington. “On any law enforcement, in any country. They're scattered across the globe and are usually very hard to find. They seem to...shift location occasionally — the worst nightmare of Bookrunners.” She cleared her throat, eyeing Liz’s confused expression. “Think of our worlds as side by side. Bookrunners can go in and out just by reading, but for fictional characters and average humans...it's not so easy. The only way in or out for them is through a waypoint. It's a kind of a tunnel or a bridge between the worlds. They're hard to find and when we do find them, we try and shut down access."

“They're not the _only_ way in or out though, Agent Navabi,” Red cut in. “Have you forgotten the Library?”

Samar nodded, addressing Liz again. “There is a place called the Library. We aren't really sure if it exists in our world or Fictionworld™, but it _does_ exist and it's a hub for all fictional characters. If they are permitted into our world for any legal reason, they travel through the Library.”

Liz sighed, falling into a nearby chair “What, so fictional characters are actually allowed here?”

“On rare occasions and only for short periods of time.”

Red clapped his hands. “Okay then, if class is finished, shall we take a field trip?” He reached into his breast pocket, pulling out a small, thin book. “The White Witch has a lead on us, but who knows how far she had to run to get to the waypoint. So let's hope she isn't too far ahead.” He smirked at Samar. “Dembe will assist you with interviewing the children. He speaks fluent Mandarin. He’ll be an asset, I assure you.”

“You're going after them? With Agent Keen? Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Ressler’s brusque tones grated as he strode up to the little group.

Red raised an eyebrow, and was about to speak when Liz jumped out of her chair.

“Why not?” she demanded. “Still think I can’t handle myself? That I have no place in your precious task force? Have you already forgotten that I was the one who rescued Senator Ryker and helped apprehend Pin and Tulip?” She spared a moment to glance at Reddington. “It’s past time that I learned more about how all this works. And since you’ve all been so close-mouthed about it, maybe Reddington is the one to show me.”

She stopped, panting a little, angry and tired and feeling absolutely alone. The sudden warmth of Reddington’s hand on her lower back was a welcome weight that helped her to reorient herself.

“Look,” Ressler began, looking frustrated, and as worn down as she felt. “I don’t-”

“Don’t worry, Donald,” Reddington interrupted cheerfully. “We’ll be back before breakfast. You should probably concentrate on getting the rest of this mess cleaned up. Lizzie, take my hand please.” He slipped his arm from around her back and offered her his hand with a rakish wink.

She rolled her eyes in return, but slid her hand into his and gripped tightly. She might not fully trust him, but she didn’t want to be lost between dimensions, either.

Reddington flipped open the slim volume in his free hand and paged into it, clearing his throat when he reached the spot he wanted. He started to read, his rich tones painting a picture that was almost tangible.

“‘This must be a simply enormous wardrobe!’ thought Lucy, going still further in and pushing the soft folds of the coats aside to make room for her. Then she noticed that there was something crunching under her feet. ‘I wonder is that more moth-balls?’ she thought, stooping down to feel it with her hand. But instead of feeling the hard, smooth wood of the wardrobe, she felt something soft and powdery and extremely cold. ‘This is very queer,’ she said, and went on a step or two further.”

Ressler and Navabi’s faces started to fade from Liz’s sight and her eyes filled with fog, the world turning white in front of her.

“Next moment she found that what was rubbing against her face and hands was no longer soft fur but something hard and rough and even prickly. ‘Why, it is just like the branches of trees!’ exclaimed Lucy.”

The smells appeared first — the clean, damp smell of fresh snow; the woodsy smell of pine and spruce.

“And then she saw that there was a light ahead of her; not a few inches away where the back of the wardrobe ought to have been, but a long way off. Something cold and soft was falling on her. A moment later she found that she was standing in the middle of a wood at night-time with snow under her feet and snowflakes falling through the air.”

And so it was. Liz stepped away from Reddington, staring around in amazement. The shiny glamour and green garden of the hotel were gone; they stood in a winter wood, surrounded by trees, snow gently falling all around. The silence was absolute.

“Well, here we are,” Reddington said jovially. His voice broke the spell, and she realized how cold she already was in her skimpy lace dress. “Shall we head for the lamp-post, Lizzie, and see what there is to see?”

“I suppose,” she replied slowly, rubbing her upper arms briskly and turning to face him. “Are we…are we really in _Narnia_?” She couldn’t quite keep the childlike wonder out of her voice.

He smiled at her, sharing her enjoyment. “We are,” he replied simply.

He shrugged out of his tuxedo jacket and wrapped it gently around her. She thrust her arms into the sleeves and huddled into it, glad for the lingering warmth of his body.

“This way, then,” he said politely, stretching an arm toward the glow of light that could just be seen between the trees.

They walked off together, step-in-step, disappearing quickly into the wood.


End file.
